


The Case of the Club Corpse

by Darklady



Series: Losing the Strand [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Matrimony, Misuse of History - Canon - Character - Readers, Money!, Mormons, Morticians, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3479414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young woman on her way to London has disappeared, and the fortune she was bringing with her has *not* been stolen. Can Sherlock Holmes resolve the matter before innocent people end accused of a nasty crime?</p><p>A simple Holmes mystery in the style of Strand Magazine.<br/>(Allowing, of course, that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle perhaps had his brain replaced by that of a 21st century slash-writing fangirl. But overlooking that small detail?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Club Corpse

_I jot the details of Holmes’s most recent case for my own recollection, and not yet for the readership of the Strand. It may come, someday, that I shall amend it for publication, in which case I shall have to edit it both for discretion and to make myself far more foolish than nature has chosen to. I do not say I should write Holmes as more clever, for he is in fact as wise as I have penned him, and nearly as difficult. Still, I must think the chance of those labors unlikely. This case contains neither Secretive Chinaman nor Occult Ritual, and not even a novelist’s license can give the characters involved titles or kingdoms in this world. Little save the violence itself serves up the sensationalism suited to the popular magazines. Still, it has to commend it the positive of justice, and a justice which might have gone astray were not Sherlock Holmes firm at the reins of fact._

~!@!~

A clatter on the door below brought Homes up from his contemplation of the morning tea. “A middle aged man of the mortuary profession. His practice is an undistinguished one, yet it served the greater good. I suppose that is all one can ask of a London bachelor.”

“Good heavens, Holmes! You derived all of that from his knock?”

“No, Watson, I confess to some prestidigitation. I learned the greater part from the message he sent around this morning asking for an appointment. Arnold Beekin of 12 Ambersine Lane, Saint Thomas parish, who, judging by the tread on the stairs, you will have the chance to interrogate yourself.”

Standing, he shifted his dressing gown for a more regular jacket. In all else he was dressed, which, had I my companion’s gift for observation, might have warned me that we were to expect early some early visitor.

“Oh Mr. Holmes, Thank you for seeing me so early. I’d have waited but we have a funeral in the forenoon.” 

In appearance, Beekin was indeed as Holmes had anticipated. He wore a black suit matched to his profession, the elbows turned slightly gray with the damage of time. His black hair was firmly brilliantined, which to a doctor’s eye gave a suspicion of a thinning patch under his bowler hat. Only his eyes were remarkable, brown in color but bright in natural good humor. I do not think many would seek out his acquaintance, but those who did might be glad of their fortune.

“Not at all, Mr. Beekin.” Sherlock Holmes showed him to a chair with some patience, suggesting that he shared my impression of the man’s worth. “You wrote that you face something of a mystery.”

“She’s disappeared, sir.”

“She?” I looked up. Holmes did not usually meddle with domestic matters. Even in less prosperous days such clients had been firmly shown the door.

“Sorry, Dr. Watson. Miss Sarah Beekin. My cousin, of a sort.”

“Pray, how does one assort one’s cousins?”

“Sarah Beekin was the daughter of my older brother Albert, or I should say half brother, by my father’s first wife. He was a fair deal older than I was, you understand, and so he didn’t stay with the business. Married the only daughter of a mortician and took over the trade in Shugborough Newett.”

“Unusual. To leave one’s birthright, as it were.”

“Father was not so easy a man to get along with. I’d likely have left myself were is not for the accident of inheritance.”

“So I gather your father has passed?”

“Yes, and Albert also, some months back. Since then Sarah and I have been in correspondence. That’s why I know she was coming here.”

“A marital arrangement?” Sherlock injected.

“Oh, no. No, Mr. Holmes. I’m not for that sort of thing!” At the detective’s raised eyebrow he quickly added, “Marrying in haste, I mean.” Taking a deep breath, he continued. “We were writing about her inheritance. You see, a woman can’t keep up the burying business. It’s just not done. Albert had a young partner- more an apprentice, really – and he wanted to take over. I suppose she could have married him, if she wanted, but the two didn’t tally that well so she sold it to him instead. Five thousand pounds, it was worth. She was going to invest it in my business.”

“Formally?” I still had strong suspicions that one or the other envisioned a different and more conventional partnership.

“Yes, sir. Stamped papers and all. I had a solicitor draw it up. She gained ten percent ownership and two pounds a week more if she helped with the work. That, plus her own rooms, breakfast and tea included.”

I nodded to Sherlock. My own profession had given me some knowledge of the mortuary field, all that it might be called second-hand, and more experience with my own paltry pension, to know that to be a man’s wage. Miss Beekin had indeed bargained long and well. Even without the anticipated profits of the business she would be nearly as well off as if she had invested in consoles or rail stock.

That did not, however, change that Mr. Beekin would be better off as well with her pound notes in hand.

“So you are out some considerable sum now she has changed her mind?” Sherlock took up the questioning.

“That’s just it. She can’t have changed her mind, or not without sending word. Her last telegraph, sent just yesterday morning, said she intended to arrive on the 10:15 train and come directly to the house. But sir. Mr. Holmes. She never did.”

“You are quite sure of that? Did you meet her at the station?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. I suppose I should have but you see the forenoon is the time for most burials, what with the funeral being in early services, and so I was about my business. Understand that mine is a small business, Mr. Holmes, and I keep no servants as such. There is Alcester Owen, the lad looking after the horses and driving the hearse, but he was with me at the cemetery. Had she come in later I would have sent him for her, but I do not own a second wagon.”

Pulling out a red handkerchief, Beekin mopped his brow.

At a sign from Holmes he continued. “It was when I arrived home, which I would put at perhaps three, that I noticed she was not there. I asked Moroni Joseph - he’s the man who serves as my embalming assistant, and so would have been downstairs to hear the doorbell – and he had no word of her.”

“He was the only one left on the premises?” Sherlock pressed.

“He and his daughter Marintha Althera, although she was out shopping until after I came back. My partner – Mr. Edward Alexander - was home, but he was up to the top floor working and knew nothing until he came down for tea.” 

That earned a slow nod from my partner. “What did you do when she did not arrive?

“Well, first thing I sent young Owen off to the station, just to see if she was waiting by her bags. Shugborough Newett is a far cry from London Town, and plenty of folks think they can deal who can not.”

“I presume she was not there.”

“No, Mr. Holmes. Owen asked around a bit, but you know how it is in such a busy place. Some thought they had seen her, and some not, and no way for a man to be certain who had the right of it.”

“What did you do next?”

“I went about asking the neighbors if they had seen her, but again if they had they did not recall.”

“Unfortunate. Did you not summon the police?”

“I sent for them, Mr. Holmes. The constable didn’t seem over interested. Said she was a woman grown and could travel as she chose.”

That last priced up my ears. “Five thousand pounds missing and the constabulary were not interested?” That did not match with the police force I had known.

“That’s the thing, Dr. Watson. The money’s right where it should be, safe in the Bank of England. It’s Sarah what’s gone missing.”

“Without her signature the transfer can not go forward.”

“You have it, Mr. Holmes. I can not imagine why she would leave without her own money, any more than I can think who would harm her to stop her from joining my business, for we neither of us are the sort to attract enmity, but I also can think of no other reason for her disappearance. Can you help me?”

“Mr. Beekin?” Holmes stood, suddenly energized. “I could not be dissuaded from this mystery for the world. The first step we shall handle here, but this afternoon, Mr. Beekin, I shall ask you to host a pair of visiting Morticians. I assume the bonds of professional brotherhood stretch that far?”

“Of course, although my establishment does not run to fancy guest quarters. Those who stay over with me don’t usually complain about the bed, if you follow.”

“No matter, Mr. Beekin. We shall be putting up in Miss Beekin’s intended rooms.”

~!@!~

“So you believe him, Holmes?”

“I do not disbelieve him. That is enough to start with.”

I said nothing, which is answer enough for Holmes. After our years together the man could read me with greater ease than he might the page of the London Times I had abandoned for his conversation.

“You flatter the man, Watson. Would you think him so clever a murderer that he would cover a crime by asking me to investigate?”

“No, Holmes, but I must acknowledge that he had fair cause. The woman has arrived, and write what she will we both know what assumptions will be made of that partnership. You saw how he panicked at the suggestion that they might wed.”

“You caught that?”

“Any man would catch that; even Lestrade, who has no motive to be observant. Add in the resident partner, the lack of common servants?”

“I would note also the particular shade of his handkerchief, quite out of line with his business dress.”

I had noted that myself and with some displeasure. Such displays could catch the eye of a Bobby, and thus proved a danger to a man’s companions as much as to his own liberty.

“This marks the man as a sod, but never a murderer.” Sherlock dispatched the point. “There is no connection between the two.”

“Nor any exclusion.” This touched one of the differences in temperament between myself and Sherlock. For all his acid tongue Sherlock Holmes is a city man and assumed a city tolerance to the very peculiarities he so sharply delineated. I was likewise tempered by my training, but mine was a military discipline that offered no mercy for an overlooked error. Likely, the thought occurred, it was the space between the two practices that had kept their domestic life both safe and sociable.

“I grant you may have deduced the reason he would hire us to investigate when the London constabulary will manage eventually and at no cost to his purse, for I think we both spot that Mr. Beekin is not inclined to liberal expenditures. In this, however, he may count us as an investment in personal security. A private company is more likely to respect the privacy of his household and far less likely to bring unrelated suspicions to the police.”

Certainly that was true of Sherlock Holmes, who had gained a reputation for serving justice more avidly than he did judges.

“For that consideration alone you are motivated to resolve the matter.”

“That, and the case itself, which does show some points of interest.”

It would at least interest the red-top papers, a vigilance more dangerous than even British Law.

“Come Watson.” Holmes tossed his napkin to the table. “Much of this case will devolve upon you.”

“How so?”

“I confess I know nothing about the embalming business, so you shall use these hours to adapt your practice from the living to the dead.”

~!@!~

We were, at Holmes’ direction, to impersonate a pair of Manchester city morticians known to our host by some sort of undertakers’ guild. I have no idea if such an association exists, nor who would host it, but the clubs of England are as many and varied as her peoples so I shall take it as probable.

Seen by the light of Holmes’s usual play-acting, it was not a struggle to adapt my professional wardrobe as he instructed. Indeed, upon reflection the physician and the mortician have much in common, in so much as they both deal with humanity at it’s frailest and with the relatives of humanity at their most emotional, and often the service to the first is dependant on mollifying the second. If the physician is more optimistic in his services? Well, the mortician may comfort himself that he is the more reliable.

While I did some frantic reading in thanatology Holmes scribbled off a handful of notes, one to Lestrade, one to our putative host, and the rest to the flock of street boys who served as Holmes’s most confidential informants.

So prepared, we arrived at the Ambersine Lane mortuary just before tea, having walked with our carpetbags from the rail station. It was much the path our missing girl must have taken, although if Holmes took any enlightenment from that he did not share his observations.

His morning, as I have mentioned, had been spent in sending and collecting reports. One of the Irregulars had checked out the baggage room and reported that three large boxes labeled for Miss Beekin had indeed come in on the previous days 10:15 train. They had been checked in to holding, presumably by Miss Beekin, and proper claim tickets had been handed over. I had expected Holmes to investigate in person, but he seemed willing to accept the facts via account, and I granted he knew his business better than I.

I took care to gain my own impression of the Ambersine Lane. It was a narrow street running generally north to south, although like most of London’s older geography it offered no particular devotion to the surveyors’ line. The neighborhood was not quite shabby but fell far from fashionable. The mortuary building, some four stories in height but a narrow two room in frontage, stood second from the south end of the street. It differed from it’s neighbors only in the lack of shop fronts on the ground floor – and one might presume also in the absence of living tenants in the basement. Where the tenements to each shoulder fronted with a half door under a porch the mortuary boasted a double door in the cathedral fashion, and to the sides of that the heaviest sort of gas stanchions.

The stone steps were wide, ended by concrete urns in the Grecian fashion. In each a thin spray of flowers wilted behind the black ribbons. Several more wreaths rested on the narrow top step. Clearly these had been set for the morning funeral Beekin had mentioned, and just as clearly they had not been cleared away with proper alacrity. One did not need to be Sherlock Holmes to conclude that the household staff was either limited or unambitious.

“Yo, you two the one’s come from Manchester?” A gray bearded workman staggered out to meet us, emerging from a shoulder-wide alley to the right of the establishment.

We agreed we were.

“Moroni Joseph”, he introduced himself, holding out a grimy hand. “Young Owen said to keep an eye out for you.”

This was the assistant Arnold Beekin had mentioned. It took no close inspection to understand why Joseph had not worked at the cemetery. His flat nose and red veined cheeks might grace a saloon, but never a churchyard. There was also his faith. I had suspected he was one of the Mormon congregation by his name and quick inspection of his costume had confirmed that allegiance. This I did not hold against the man, having met both good and ill from his brotherhood, but the more severe clerics of Church of England might think otherwise. 

Following the man we entered a covered alley half-roofed with brick and gated in black iron. But of course, I realized as he led us to a narrow wood door in the sidewall, in this particular household no member would enter by the front. That was the business entrance – the shop front, as it were – and daily life would be handled where it could not impose unwelcome animation on the estate.

Once in the alley I could see that the property was larger than it seemed, including much of the mews that would, in other spaces, be taken up by a second tenement. Inside the fence I spotted a small tool shed serving a vegetable garden, a working area of flagstones flanking a water pump, and to the end a two-story stable. That last was where the hearse horses resided. Given the laundry line descending from the upper floor, doubtless some of the humans of the house slept there as well.

“This is the way in.” He opened a thin oak door in the ship style. “Less you want to go by the slope. Some might find it rough but I never heard a complaint, no not from a living soul.” At this he pointed to a metal hatchway in the back wall. I would have taken to be a coal shed, viewing the wide wheelbarrow parked by the side. From his sly tone, however, I deduced that it served to load another material. 

The outer door opened to a narrow hall which lead to a back staircase. It would have been the servants’ stairs, back when this house had a family and staff. Now, judging by the worn streak in the serviceable linoleum, it was the main path of activity.

A young woman was coming up from the basement as we arrived.

Jones greeted her with a fierce hug. “Mary, me girl, these are Mr. Sigerson and Mr. Hamish.” He waved at our baggage in lieu of explanation. “ Mr. Beekin says they’ll be staying on the second floor. The new rooms.”

“Marintha Althera, sir”. She corrected as soon as the old man was out of earshot.

“Your pardon, Miss Althera.” Holmes smiled. 

She giggled. I had expected as much.

Holmes has a charming manner when he wishes, and I allow that he applies it democratically to all those he would make use of. He had instructed me often on the advantages of keeping good terms with the domestic crew.

“Joseph. Moroni Joseph is my father.”

So this was the workman’s daughter? I would not have made the match, given the difference in their style.

Miss Joseph was a thin figure of a girl. Mortuary fashion did not flatter her, although one might expect it to suit her pale complexion and blonde hair. It might have, had there been the usual roses in her cheeks to warm her expression or a touch of cheer to spark her blue eyes. I wondered if the severity grew from her religion, or from the stress of dealing with the fallout of her father’s unsteady habits. Certainly her dress showed an aspiration to something higher.

Instead of the expected path – up the stairs – Miss Joseph led us though the first door towards the front of the house. 

The chamber was clearly a viewing room, although for the nonce unoccupied, be it by the living or the dead. Two scant rows of chairs faced a taffeta-skirted platform. That was, I realized, where the coffin would rest in times of employment. Skirting behind, our guide tugged aside the heavy velvet drape.

I was amazed. “A dumb waiter?” For that it must be, although unlike any I had seen. Rather than tray-sized this was wide enough to hold a resting man. Which must be, I understood at second glance, it’s purpose.

“Best trick in the house.” She unlatched the grill. “You can put your bags in here.”

I did, as did Holmes.

“Now if you’ll just give this a bit of a crank?” She directed Holmes to a large winch-handle flush beside the grill. “I’ll watch the arrow for you. The bell will ring when you’ve reached your floor.”

It did so, first once and then again for the second.

She drew the curtain back into place. “You can pick up your bags just before you reach your room. Much easier than banging up all those stairs.”

“So you move the caskets by dumb waiter?” Holmes sounded surprisingly like himself. It was unlike him to scant a character role, but I suppose the uniqueness of the machinery must excuse him.

“From the showroom on the first floor to the basement where the clients come in, and then back to here for the viewing. No other way to do it, really. Mr. Beekin would lose half the wallpaper if he tried to lift a coffin though those doors.”

“Ingenious.”

“That’s why you’ve come to London, isn’t it? Mr. Alexander said you were here to see the London way of doing things.”

Right you are, Miss Marintha.” Holmes bowed over her hand. “I am utterly fascinated by the doings in this establishment.”

~!@!~

Our luggage reclaimed, we settled ourselves into our temporary quarters.

Miss Beekin’s apartment consisted of two fair-sized rooms on the south side of the house. Each room opened onto the center hall, as did the water closet between them. There was no bath, but that was not to be expected on a second floor bedchamber.

The sitting room was to the front, and well lit by a window fronting the street. The floor was bare, oak planks showing signs of age, but sturdy and freshly waxed. There was no fireplace, but a gas radiator promised comfort in the winter. Still, I should not spend much time here. The only furnishings consisted of two hard-back chairs, by model clearly borrowed from the viewing rooms.

That I found a bit dubious. 

“Holmes?” I asked. “Does this suggest that Miss Beekin was not actually expected to arrive?”

“Miss Beekin contracted to supply much of her own furnishings. If we have nothing by tomorrow it might be wise to check what she had brought down from her former residence.”

Holmes moved past me to check the wainscoting. He ran his fingers along the window casement, even moving the latch to check the operation of the sash.

“You are thinking, Holmes.”

“With some difficulty, Watson. There are endless chips and scrapes on the wood, but that could be the legacy of painters and paperhangers. Absent rugs to be dislodged or furnishings to be toppled it becomes a challenge to detect any signs of struggle in these rooms. How would one notice if a bloodstained article was removed?”

“To the good, Holmes, there are also no draperies to block witnesses from observing any drama within.”

“A point, Watson. One would be foolish to murder a young woman in full view of the public when a better room is available.”

“There is no need to be harsh, Holmes, even if I lack your talents.”

“You mistake what was a complement.” He held up his hand, pausing me in my track. “A young woman arrives. She is carrying a hand satchel. Where would she go? She would not enter as we did, Watson! She would go directly to her bed chamber.”

The bedroom was to the rear, joined by a short hall. There was no inner door, but a cord curtain had been hung to shield the passage. Again the room was freshly painted, the gas fixtures were new, and everything spoke to a sincere effort at design. There was only one bed (as should be expected) but it was of good size with both mattress and bedsprings.

“She would set her satchel down.”

Finding no table or dresser, he mimed placing a bag onto the floor,

“She would hang her coat.” Holmes made his way to the standing wardrobe, which with the bed made up all the furnishings of the room. It was a modern model, boasting an iron rod on brackets as well as the usual hooks inside the door. Several new wire coat hangers rested waiting on the bottom of the unit.

I picked two, one for his coat and one for my own.

“She would remove her hat.” He played the part, replacing and then lifting his own bowler. It would be smutted from the trip.” Holmes dropped to his knees. “Look here, Watson!” He ran his finger along the floor. It came back dark. “Coal dust! Not mere carbon, but the burned coal that one might expect from a boiler engine. In a room with a fire one might ignore such, but given the fresh finish of the floor? This can only have come from the clothing of our missing woman.”

He rose, satisfied.

“Help me shift the bed, Watson.”

I gripped the footboard. 

“No. Carefully. We dare not make any noise.”

Homes took the head. Together we raised the bed and moved it a careful ten inches.

“Miss Beekin did arrive as planned, Watson. Here is our proof.” Holmes reached down and captured a thin steel pin that had nearly vanished into the crack between floorboards. “Our murderer had the wit to remove Miss Beekin’s hat and coat, but they failed to note the fall of a hat pin. It is on such minor points that even clever criminals stumble.”

Opening my notebook I wrote down the facts. So easily had Holmes’ brilliant mind resolved the first question of the case.

“Who takes up the rest of the floor?” Holmes wondered.

“I would suggest Mr. Beekin, or perhaps the partner we have yet to meet. That looks to me to be the business office.”

Holmes nodded. “An office with access to the coffin elevator.”

There was a door further down the hall, but we did not require it for our survey as on this floor the dumb waiter had an access grill on both the north and south sides. With the lift box itself now down on some lower level we could easily see across into the far chamber.

From the window on the far wall it was clear the office took up the remainder of the floor.

The door proved unlocked, allowing us entry.

Unlike Miss Beekin’s apartment, here the windows were shielded with heavy slat blinds. The side set, those where the window opened to nothing but the bare brick, were raised, and the window itself open several inches. The front blinds were turned to an angle that allowed light but blocked the room from outside observation.

I paced around the double desk, trying to envision as Holmes had the actions of the previous day. “This is where Miss Beekin would have gone as soon as she was settled, if she were carrying bank papers.”

“I wonder.” Holmes pulled me to a space in front of the elevator. “Stand here, Watson. That’s a good chap.”

“I say.”

“Don’t be foolish. I have no plan to open the grill.”

“Which would make me more sanguine if the metal looked more sturdy.”

I do not think myself a timorous man but standing with ones back to a dark drop would discomfort the most stalwart, even if one did not suspect the plunge of claiming a recent victim.

Holmes lit one of the desk lamps. 

“Hold the light, Watson.” 

I obeyed as he perused the grill and workings with his usual intensity.

“I do not, at first observation, find any proof of blood. That does not exclude the prospect, you understand.” He stood, dusting off his dark trousers. “It is proving a challenge to have a case in a house designed for the removal of bodies. I might normally make some exclusions based on weight – a corpse being no light thing – but here it seems that the dead may be collected at one’s very door.”

~!@!~

A clatter of hooves and wheels had alerted us to the hearses’ return, signaling we should head downstairs for tea. That meal was served in the rear of the ground floor, the very room near the stairs to which Miss Joseph had been heading when we first met her. It was, I now saw, a rough sort of kitchen. Likely the cook’s domain had been below when the house served less commercial purposes but even men immured to the undertaker’s profession by generations of service evidently hesitated to share their meals with the subject of their labors.

A scared table filled the center of the room, surrounded by mismatched chairs of an elegant form if poor preservation. I instantly suspected that they were the survivors of previous ages of viewing parlors, now orphaned and left to serve in a more humble capacity. Much of the table was taken up with plates, each likewise unmatched but welcome for the hearty load of breads and cold meats.

It had been a long day, with breakfast interrupted and lunch but tea and a biscuit. I was glad indeed to see the generous spread, however rough the presentation.

Mr. Beekin was unwrapping his scarf as we came in. 

“Here you are. Just as you like it.” Miss Joseph bustled up with a hot mug of tea. “There’s ginger cake. Your favorite.”

“Thank you, Marintha. Most kind.”

The girl preened. “I like taking care of you.”

Her father frowned at that, but Beekin had already moved his attention. “Mr. Sigerson, Mr. Hamish.” He waved us in. “Have a seat and serve up, for we don’t wait on form here. No time for such things in a working day.” 

“Thank you.” I poured for myself, then for Holmes.

“Sorry. Sorry.” A young man tumbled in the back door, nearly colliding with the girl.

“You’re late.” 

The lad so addressed was clearly Alcester Owen. If I do not greatly describe him, it is because he was of that particularly unremarkable breed of London youth. From the Irregulars alone I could pluck a dozen of them. Undersized, underpaid, and from his avid application to the bread and butter often underfed, Owen bore the common print of a very common man.

“Sorry, miss. I had to wrap Big John’s right fore again. Horses, naught but trouble. Lot easier if we had a motor hearse.”

Beekin did not disagree. “Pick up some black tape when your done here, and we’ll keep him braced tomorrow. Let him heal.”

“I’d rather rest the beast. We sure to need him?”

“For the first, at least. That’s the Farnsdale family. If he looks to be favoring switch off and use a hack for Peterson. Likely no one will notice.”

“No one at the grave at all, better you say.” Moroni Joseph slugged back his tea like gin, topping up his mug at half done. “Like as not I could load the old man in a barrow and tote him down the alley, for all who would fuss.”

“Small family, the Petersons?” I asked.

“No family, more like, eh Mr. Alexander?”

The man entering the assembly was Mr. Edward Alexander, the partner. He was as blond as Owen, and nearly as slim, but there the resemblance ended. Where the first was dross, the second shone golden in every way, from his Brutus curls to the sky tint of his eyes. His manner was likewise polished, if perhaps acquired by study more than birth. I would confess (but only to Holmes, and only under the sort of torments he alone can supply) that I could recognize what Mr. Beekin saw in the man.

“Pardon Mr. Joseph’s rough manner.” Alexander helped himself neatly from the table. “Mr. Peterson is what we call a club funeral.”

I must have looked rather lost, for he continued. “You may not handle them in Manchester, but we have quite a steady trade here. Something of a specialty of our house. Men without local families often join fraternal organizations, the Freemasons being only the best known, and a common benefit is provision for burial. Mr. Peterson, for the case in point, was an Odd Fellow.”

Joseph snorted. “In more sense than one.”

“Now Moroni, do not discomfort our guests.” For the benefit of our end of the table he added, “I personally value such business, and have prospered by it. My partner’s contribution has been to reach out to such brotherhoods and arrange a flat rate for our services.”

Mr. Alexander smiled at the flattery. “The fraternal orders host their wakes and such at their usual gatherings, so we are spared the expense of an elaborate service. A graveside prayer and a standard pine coffin suffice for their wants. Given such modesty, we find we can discount our rates quite substantially.”

“An excellent idea!” My enthusiasm was not forced. London had far to many lone households, and many were the times the police were called out for a body not murdered but merely abandoned after death when there was no relative to take charge of matters.

“And you handle these daily?” Holmes inquired.

“Near daily.” Lowering his eyes, Beekin counted events off on his fingers. “It was Barnes today, and Tobbit yesterday. Sunday we can’t bury, you understand. The church forbids. We tend to save Saturday for family funerals, given how many folk have it for their half-day.”

I nodded, trusting that Sherlock at least would retain the count.

“Tomorrow,” Beekin continued, “we bury Peterson and old Mr. Farnsdale.” Turning to Moroni Joseph he asked, “Is he done?”

“Near.”

“He should have been finished yesterday.”

“I fell behind. Not that it’s much matter. I still need to dress him, and his sister ‘haint sent by a suit.” He chewed vigorously as he pondered the question. “I’ll send Mary to fetch it after she sets up the small parlor.”

“Not the small parlor”, Alexander corrected. “We still need lights for that room. I mentioned Monday that the gas mantle had cracked.”

“I thought that was handled?” Beekin looked briefly confused, then dismissed the question. “No matter. She can pick up a new mantle as well.”

Mary – or was she Marintha - left her tea and headed off, presumably to take care of the errands listed. That must be one of her purposes in the household, as I remembered she had likewise been shopping the day before.

“Is Mr. Farnsdale similar to Mr. Peterson, in that you do not expect a family?” I asked.

“Mr. Farnsdale does have some family, but only his sister lives near, so his will be a small service. For the rest we’ll send a photograph.”

“Photograph?” That word perked Sherlock Holmes’ interest.

“One of the other innovations Alexander has brought to the business.”

“I apprenticed as a Ferrotypist, Mr. Sigerson. My association with Mr. Beekin began with that. Quite a few families wish a final portrait of their loved one and, if I have leave to speak bluntly, they are often more photogenic after Mr. Beekin’s care. I capture the image as soon as the departed is settled onto the viewing platform and then head up to develop the exposure. I can have a good carte-de-visite print within half an hour and a portrait size set and framed by the next mornings services.”

“Mr. Alexander has his own developing studio up to the attic. It is a great inducement for our business.”

Holmes leaned forward, his tea abandoned. “And you do this for all your clients?”

“The exposure, yes. I don’t print them all. Not right away. There is a cost involved. Still, you would be surprised how many families will come back and purchase an image even several months after the burial.”

“You did so for Mr. Tobbit?”

“Four cart-de-visite, a six-inch framed glass for the club wall, and a two inch rough on paper for the engraver. That last lets the printer add faces to the bereavement list in the club newsletter. That’s about standard. The images are very popular with the club accounts, and an extra pound on our bill.”

Mr. Beekin beamed, proud as a new hen. “This is one of the services we hope to expand, when resources allow.”

~!@!~

“Come Watson.” Holmes was waiting by the staircase leading to the third floor.

“We are going to search their private quarters?”

“Perhaps later. Right now I am more interested in Edward Alexander and his photography studio.”

“Do you think that had something to do with the cause of Miss Beekin’s death?”

“Not directly, but I think it may have much to contribute to the solution.”

We made our way up quietly. The household was employed on the ground floor setting up for the evening services. Even so there was excuse for carelessness.

The attic door was locked. For Holmes, this was a mere inconvenience, and the mechanism clicked before had more than reached the landing.

“Excellent, Watson.” Holmes pulled me close. “I need you.”

He unbuttoned my coat, holding it wide.

“Block the light. I’d not want to damage the work, especially when it promises to be so productive.”

I squeezed in behind Holmes, shutting the door the moment we were within. It was a small space, only a narrow strip where the low slop of the roof rose to a height where a man might stand. Walls of unpainted board had been nailed up on the sides, either to block the draft or to exclude the light. If it were the later, they had succeeded. The room was lit – if one may stretch to call it that – by a tiny gas light in a dark red lantern.

Ranks of crates had been attached along one wall, serving as a mix of shelving and filing cabinet for the glass plates stacked within.

“A most interesting operation, Watson.”

I picked up one plate that caught my eye. “Interesting indeed. I wonder if this was the particular photograph that arranged our hosts introduction.”

“If so you should leave it for him. It is, however, another clue.”

“Holmes, I give you my medical assurance that neither body I this photograph is that of a dead girl.”

“My meaning was that it offered the photographer a second income, making it even less likely that he would be our killer.”

Also, I added where Holmes would not, a fair motive for Beekin to keep silent even if he was. The Metropolitan would not be so focused on a single offense, and would gladly extend their powers of arrest to the topic of public – or in this case private – indecency.

“Here, Watson, check though these pages.”

These subjects were indeed funeral, although none fit the description of our missing girl.

“Holmes? What am I looking for?”

“I am no photographer, but have studied enough to know that they will often print extra images in a series, to allow for a first that may emerge too pale or too dark. Here, Watson.” He passed a scrap of printed cardstock. “This is fresh work.”

“Mr. Barnes.” It was not a question. His name was penciled on the back. “What has he to do with this case?”

“Nothing and everything, my dear doctor.” He wrapped the image and slid it into his coat pocket. “Once I send this to Lestrade at the yard I think we shall answer at least half of our mystery.”

~!@!~

“Well, Holmes, I can see why our client wanted the investment monies.”

“But not, Watson, why he would need to kill for it. Especially so ineffectively. I grant Mr. Alexander the ability to excite man’s passion, but a crime of passion is what this is not. We are unlikely to stretch beyond two motives – to gain money or to keep Beekin from having it. The later makes no sense. In a more elevated household one might dispute some inheritance, but here they must prosper with their employer or find themselves on the street.” 

“I would dispute that more crimes are born of passion than of reason, but concede I have found the spark of neither in this company.”

This partial submission contented Holmes and he said no more. 

He paused at the ground landing. Some members of the household were about but they took no notice of us. 

“Let us walk, Watson, and see what else may appear.”

We made our way to the back garden, and through the rear gate to a street yet more narrow and serpentine than Ambersine Lane. Despite that defect it was nearly as busy as the main, the cracked cobbles clattering with barrows as the lesser laborers of London bustled about their penny business.

Holmes made a great study of the path, both the roadway and those little passages revealed only to the borough initiate.

“What are you looking for?”

“A stationers shop, but lacking that a news stand will suffice.”

We found the latter crouched under canvas on the corner of another thin and frantic alley, this near a brewery and its tumble of commensal taverns.

Holmes purchased a buff envelope and a single sheet of common foolscap. The borrow of a pen completed the transaction, and it was the work of a shilling to employ the peddler’s son to carry the finished note on to Scotland Yard.

“What now, Holmes?”

“I shall want to study my Ordnance Survey, but for now our active labors must rest.”

We returned to the garden were we shared a cigar that I had, with the foresight of many undersupplied campaigns, brought with me from Baker street. That was not my usual tobacco, but sufficed and packed well for travel.

Miss Joseph was out, collecting vegetables.

“You garden?” I address her.

“It is our way, Mr. Hamish. Our teachings tell us to be sufficient wherever we may dwell.”

“That must be hard in London. It is not a city kind to agriculture.”

“It is not.”

“So you would be happy elsewhere?”

Here eyes took me in, a narrow survey down to the bone. “You’re Manchester, and that’s as hard a city as London.”

“Mere conversation, Miss Joseph. I offer no offense.”

She frowned, but accepted my retreat. “My father remains in London, and while he works I must stay with him.”

Finishing her basket she strode off to the stables.

I saw Holmes watch her and spotted his enlightenment.

“Observations, Holmes?”

“Always, and of many things.” He smiled, the thin secret that marked his mind as well occupied. “The map becomes much clearer in my mind’s vision. But come, we have a service to attend.”

~!@!~

“He’s ready to go.” Moroni Joseph shouted up the shaft.

Mr. Farnsdale rested on the worktable. His appearance spoke well of the embalmers art.

I was surprised to note that he was only half dressed. That is, the shirt, tie, and jacket of the upper torso were impeccable, but the lower body was tightly wrapped in muslin. That did, however, make the corpse easier to transfer.

Following Holmes I had, as Joseph had mockingly suggested, come down the delivery route. It was not so steep as implied, nothing like the coal shoot I had taken it for, but rather an slow incline by which the product of the house could be easily transferred to the stables and the waiting hearse.

The basement likewise defied my expectation, being well lit and cleanly scientific. The south room was Moroni Joseph’s domain, similar to any dissecting room with its tin table and floor drains. The north, where I watched now, offered the table mentioned and the so-vital elevator. It was likewise well lit and neatly furnished, and I could see the arrangement served Arnold Beekin well as he finished the departed.

“Box coming down! Watch your hands!” Upstairs called back to us. A wise warning as the elevator platform grumbled down to the basement room. It held a coffin was in the modern style, with a curved top divided across the center. 

Joseph opened the grill. “Give me a hand, will you governor?”

Doubtless one of the other men usually helped, but with two newcomers sitting idle? I judged Moroni Joseph not a man to take on work he could pass off. [I will note here that Holmes has much the same habit, and withdrew behind the workbench for his safety.]

I gripped my end. The coffin was surprisingly light.

Joseph must have seen my expression. “London coffin. Build them out of pine, they do. Brace them at the break so they don’t gap, at least not here in the showroom. Varnish on the outside, and cloth within, so they look solid, but you don’t dare sit on them.”

Alcester Owen tumbled out of the elevator, proving the foolish immortality of youth.

“True enough!” he laughed. “Remember Big Joe Smith?”

“That was a bad day.”

“Oh?” I encouraged. This was an antidote I wished to continue, either for the case or for the chance of a gem to amuse the Strand readership.

Owen had the same love of the raconteurs’ gift, plus the cheerful morbidity of his trade. “Chap nearly fell out the bottom. He was a big lad, mind you. Near twenty stone he must have been.”

Joseph added, “Club funeral, so we didn’t want to hire a carpenter special.”

“Mr. Joseph here had to break a crate and nail the boards across the bottom.”

“Brace took up so much room that we nearly couldn’t squeeze the lad in. Had to turn his feet sideways, we did, just to get him settled.”

“Not that anyone guessed.”

“Wouldn’t the visitors have noticed?” Holmes asked.

Joseph shook his head. “We did it after the wake. Mind you, I was in a fret before, but the platform held him up. It’s only setting the coffin down that you need to worry about, and by then it’s locked and none to see or be wiser how he settles.”

Mr. Beekin arrived, and the boss’s eye ended all good humor. At his direction we arranged the body, setting braces under the satin to steady matters. He finished by packing flowers around the body and we set Farnsdale in the elevator, heading back up to the viewing parlor.

~!@!~

For my part I followed Moroni Joseph back to his work chambers.

He was humming to himself, breaking off to sing the refrain of some peculiar hymn; “push them together, yea, push them to Zion” and later ”march to Zion’s land.” Between verses he would slap the worktable and shake his head, for all the world as if to knock away some distracting thoughts.

“Is this the gentleman who follows Mr. Farnsdale?”

“Nay, Mr. Hamish. Peterson’s already packed like salt fish. This chaps a Saturday job. Pass me the blue case, if you would.”

It proved to be full of rubber tubes and trocars.

Joseph went about his business, placing these in the common way to drain the body.

“What is a Saturday job, if you don’t mind?” Sherlock asked.

“Expensive.” Joseph went to a cupboard and unearthed a brass vessel much like a water reservoir. I would guess the capacity to be at least ten gallons. The bottom ended in a funnel set with more rubber tubing, and the top opened with a wheel mechanism. “Got to mix up the good stuff if ye expect them to keep for the week.”

He went to the shelf, were ranks of bottles rested, unlabeled and only loosely sealed. Grabbing several identified only by his memory he began to pour them into the waiting vessel.

Sherlock leaned in. “I’m curious, what do you use?”

“To pickle them?” Joseph hoisted the filled device to the hook set into the ceiling. “Sometimes chemicals, if the family can bear the cost. Sometimes just stale gin with a bit of pink die. Flat beer; if we can get it clean enough. We buy it from the growlers, and they collect it from… well, where they collect from is no man’s business.” He huffed at this own wit. “Laws, sausage, and second hand beer. Three things no man wants to know the making of. Let Mr. Alexander price the job and all you can give is a bit to the face and then slap on the powder and hope no one looks close. I’ve got a dozen fine formulas but no use for most of them. Dull, cheap business is Beekin. Time comes I’ll leave here, go off where a man can prosper, and then where will the old dog be? Out without a bone, I say.”

“So you did not train here?”

“Nothing here to learn any man.” He shot a two-fingered insult to the roof, doubtless targeting the management. “I’m a proper mortician not a coffin salesman like Beekin and his glad-handing ‘partner’. Trained by my uncle. Should have inherited a fancy place up in Holborn but…well, the devil got hold of me.”

I would have said gin got hold of the man, but I have seen enough of the damages to grant that gin can be the very devil.

“Although I see you have reformed, to judge by your religion.”

That got a turn. Clearly the man was unused to a positive reference.

“Yes,” he granted slowly. “Mary’s blessed mother became a Saint, and the saving of me. I took the name Moroni to mark my new life.” He wiped his eye on his sleeve. “It was better when she was here.”

“She has passed?”

“Smallpox, some five years gone. I’ve done my best since then, for all London’s no easy place. I’d like better for my Mary. She’s a clever girl, too much so for this life, I fear. But where is a man welcome with no money?”

~!@!~

The evening viewing was indeed a small service. Even with a young cousin come to assist the elderly Miss Farnsdale, the staff outnumbered the mourners.

Beekin watched them settle from a view hole in the back door.

“I say, Dr. Watson… I mean Mr. Hamish. I know this is not your usual business but there is a thing we do. Sometimes. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“If I can help.” Given that I was here at his employ, however secretly, there seemed little other possible response.

“Could you sit a bit? He pointed to the parlor. “Maybe just there in the second row?”

“If you wish.”

My confusion must have shown, for he continued. “Sometimes services get a bit lonely. It’s a nice surprise if one or two, let us call them distant acquaintances, show up unexpected-like. Maybe they give a word or two of condolence. Make the forgotten seem a bit – less so.”

I did understand, and was sad for it. Military funerals in the field are often rough to the point of impiety, but one has the comfort of the survivors to join ranks around the grave. 

Edward Alexander hurried up with a black ribbon boutonniere. “Here, wear this. You aren’t on staff here so the old woman won’t know your face.”

“Understood.” I swiftly settled the flower on Sherlock’s lapel. “Come, Sigerson.”

“I hardly think the family wants a visiting mortician from Manchester.”

“No, but they’d welcome a…” I paused, looking to the professionals. “What was Mr. Farnsdale’s employment?”

“Cobbler.”

“A fellow cobbler. You can keep or leave Manchester as you chose.”

“This is hardly a fair use of…” Holmes began.

I cut him off. “You did want to observe matters, did you not? This should give you excellent vantage.”

Which it was. He settled to his role without further complaint, proving an excellent example of elderly shoe-smith. I lack his talent, so simply sat silent.

The parlor was arranged much as it had been earlier, only a few clusters of flowers being added to personalize the occasion. The gaslights were low, for mood or to obscure any shabbiness in the appointments. They were, I noted, all lit. Evidently Miss Joseph had managed her afternoon duties before her return. In a fresh note a photograph of the deceased was set on a music stand and illuminated by paired candles. That was Edward Alexander’s work. To my mind it added an occult aspect to the event, seeing the double image of the man set beside himself, both identically encoffined. Still, I could see where the innovation might appeal to those of a morbid sentiment.

The memorial itself was brief, and conducted entirely by Mr. Beekin with the accompaniment of a few phonograph records. Another economy, or an indication that none of the household had mastered the upright piano sitting under the north window. Perhaps, I speculated, that would have been one of Miss Beekin’s duties.

We noted Mr. Alexander’s other talent, and on speculation it was one worth the pay. He flattered the young woman without dismissing the elder, amused without risking inappropriate mirth, and lightened the proceedings without once misstepping the requisite solemnity.

Afterwards Alexander escorted the ladies out. They had walked here, careful of the cab fare. That was fine in the early twilight, but it was now both dark and tending to rain. They lived only streets away, making the courtesy a light burden, but it doubtless gave a great comfort for those returning to an empty house. Old Miss Farndale left clutching his sleeve, the framed photograph of her brother clamed in her other hand.

If he was, to quote Joseph, a mere coffin-salesman? He was clearly a most effective one.

“What now?” I asked when Joseph and Owen reappeared.

Owen jerked on the elevator curtain. “We take him back downstairs. Easy job to push him out come first light.”

“If we can we’ll load the hearse the night before, but only in good weather.”

“Can’t get the interior damp.”

“When it rains?” I inquired.

“There’s a storage space downstairs.”

“Better there than the stable. I don’t want to hear the cats howling for fresh meat. Keep a man up all night so he can barely work though the day.”

That was a dreadful image. I changed the topic. “So you both live over the stables?”

“Only him.” Owen pointed to the older man. “I’m still at home, and only come in when the boss has work for me.”

I filed that fact to memory, for all I was sure Holmes had gathered such data much before.

~!@!~

Dinner was not a shared meal, something I should have noted from the Mr. Beekin’s mention of their negotiations. Holmes and I took our evening bread at an Irish Ordinary the detective had some recommendation to. The service was rough, with the menu only beef and potatoes, but both were brought in full portion. That set well enough with me.

We had no more than started when a familiar face appeared.

“Constable Higgins. Good evening.”

“Good evening Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson.” He doffed his helmet.

“Sit, if you have time, and have a plate on my tab.”

Higgins settled himself. “That I will sir. It’s a cold night.”

“And a long walk from your usual duty area, so I assume you have my answer from Lestrade.”

“I do indeed Mr. Holmes.”

He handed over a long brown envelope, the sort that ties with strings. 

Holmes pulled the contents out. It proved no more than a single page narrowly written and two photographs. One was familiar, the carte-de-visite which Holmes had taken from Edward Alexander’s studio. One was of the same man, less decorative, abandoned among the rubble of what must be a back alley.

“Yes, Watson, that solves half our mystery. I know where Miss Beekin is.”

“Where, Holmes?” I half stood, but his hand restrained me.

“No where you can give her any aid, I am sad to say. Let her rest until morning, when I hope to have justice to deck her early grave.”

He passed the page to me. It was a police report noting a body reported this very morning in a courtyard some few streets from here. The corpse had been dressed above and bare below the waist. I knew, even without comparing the face between the two images, that the man so discovered must be Barnes.

“So it’s a criminal you’re after, Mr. Holmes?”

“The worse of criminals, Higgins, although not so spectacular as those the crime tabloids glorify. Still, I reserve my right to judge by my own ethics, and to my mind this is a grave evil.”

Holmes tossed his napkin onto the table. “I fear I must impose on you to return to Scotland Yard with my instructions, and then return in the morning when they have been carried out.”

“No trouble, Mr. Holmes. Inspector Lestrade said I was to put myself at your service.”

“Sadly, those services will be called upon.”

~!@!~

“So you have your solution, Holmes?” I asked as we walked back to the house.

“You should have it as well, if you but assemble what we know.”

“You incline to Moroni Joseph? I hope you do not count past offense by his co-religionists against him.”

“No more than I would for any faith, except as a teaching might incline a person to some action more than another. For Joseph, there is a second impediment. To dispose of him via his religion I would have to grant that he followed it, which he sadly does not.”

“Why would the man lie about such a thing?” 

To lie about what one was not I could utterly understand. The mask of convention was the face of prosperity. To claim a disfavor was madness.

“Not so much false as fallen.” At my hesitant step Holmes added. “Surely you recall that their Prophet forbids his obedients all spirituous beverages?”

“Yet Joseph shows every disability of the inebriate.” The red cheeks. The broken veins. The slow step and rough speech. I had seen, but not observed. Rather I had dismissed it as the commonality of the working poor. “Mr. Joseph was the only one home”, I speculated. “No, wait, Mr. Alexander was also in residence. He could have come down from the attic unseen.”

“This is no ghost story.”

“I know you incline to acquit Alexander, but you can not just excuse him.”

By this time we had reached the house. It was dark, and we made out way up the staircase unmolested.

“Please, Watson, when I have I ever allowed emotion to abort my deductive logic?”

“Should I start with the matter of a certain goose?”

“That was the conclusion, Watson. To spare a guilty man the force of a yet more guilty law is one matter, to demure over the facts another.”

“I see no choice except Joseph or Alexander to have done the crime.”

“Either of them could have, but that does not mean that they did.”

We had now reached our own floor. To my surprise, Mr. Alexander was waiting.

“Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson. Will you come in for a brandy?”

“We can not,” I answered.

“Of course we can, Watson.” Holmes dismissed my complaint. “You must forgive my partner, Mr. Alexander, for he suspects you as a murderer.”

“Holmes!” Three shocked voices – mine, Mr. Alexander’s, and Mr. Beekin’s – echoed as one.

Holmes ignored all.

“So, for his comfort, will you answer if you did, in point, kill Miss Beekin?”

“No, Mr. Holmes, I did not.” He led up to the office where he took firm command of the brandy snifters. “I will not say there were not days when I wished her to the devil.”

“Edward!”

“Hush, Arnold. It makes no sense to pay a man and lie to him.”

Holmes accepted his glass and passed one to me. “Then you will back up your claim of innocence?”

“Only by common sense, Mr. Holmes.” He raised his glass to his partner’s honor. “I know what I have here, and I know the rareness of it, and when the matter of her residence was first proposed I will not lie and call myself happy.”

“This makes a poor alibi.”

“My defense is that I was persuaded by practicality and inevitability.”

“Two powerful advocates, I grant.”

“Practically, five thousand pounds will be a great benefit to this business. People are not as settled as they once were, as tied to their neighborhoods. Every funeral home now competes not with one or two but with the whole of London. There is the constant pressure to modernize, to electrify, to provide ever new innovations merely to keep the business that could once be relied upon.”

“And the inevitability?” I inquired.

“Blood is blood, Dr. Watson. She was his kin and rich or poor had a claim upon his roof. Seen thus it was a blessing that we need not also feed and clothe her of our own expense.”

“You did not worry?”

“I have many worries. What man does not?”

“You did not worry that she would expect marriage to Mr. Beekin. Certainly most women would, and it is the obvious conclusion to the meeting of dower and estate.”

“She did not seem inclined, or she would have married in her home town. A gamble, I grant, but if I had guessed wrongly there were still safer solutions.”

“Oh?”

He shrugged. “A young woman with a settled income of fifty pounds a year has little trouble finding suitors. Here we have a steady flow of widowers, constant as the Thames, and if those did not suit London is full of ambitious young men willing to marry a good job. If despite those hundreds she pushed too hard on Arnold I could court her myself.”

“That sounds more frying pan than fire.”

“The lady would find me fond of exceedingly long engagements.” He relaxed into the easy chair set beside Arnold Beekin. “I had no cause to kill her, Dr. Watson, and even less cause to kill her precipitously.”

“Because you knew she had not signed over the five thousand pounds.”

“Precisely, Dr. Watson. If you can not consider me honest, at least think me accountant enough to wait until her check had cleared.”

~!@!~

We settled into bed, and I confess the brandy had done much to increase the comfort of a cold bedchamber.

“You torment me Sherlock.” I do not know if I referred to his silence on the case or his hand on my thigh.

“I should do more were we not among strangers.” His breath was warm in my ear. “Content yourself that I shall reveal all in the morning, and then we may go back to Baker Street where you may… content yourself.”

So the night hours passed, and in time I resolved myself to sleep.  
~!@!~

Still unsatisfied, at least in terms of the current mystery, I followed Holmes down to breakfast. Once again the full household was assembled, and I noted that one more had been added.

“Thank you, Constable Higgins.” Holmes gathered a number of cardboard packages from his arms. Ignoring the waiting eggs and sausage he dumped the contents onto the kitchen table.

“What is this mess?” Moroni Joseph asked, indignant.

“The handbag Miss Beekin carried from Shugborough Newett, and which was found this morning in her coffin. Pardon me, in Mr. Barnes’s coffin, which Miss Beekin merely came to occupy.” Moving down, Holmes unloaded the second box. “This is her travelling coat. Quite a serviceable garment, if not one of much fashion. It was found last night near Mr. Barnes’s body. Also, in rather sad shape, her hat.”

“Cor! You don’t say!” 

“It is my task to do so, Mr. Owen.”

Turning, Sherlock Holmes addressed the company.

“You are all aware of Miss Sarah Beekin, and of her disappearance from what should have been her new home. What you did not know is that I am no visiting mortician, but rather Sherlock Holmes, and with my partner Dr. Watson I have been employed to resolve that disappearance. My associate, Constable Higgins, has been loaned by the Yard to assure that you remain seated here until I have done so.”

There was a general stirring, but none challenged the policeman’s authority.

“This much is clear. Miss Beekin arrived as scheduled. She checked her heavy baggage and, careful of the cab fare, walked down Ambersine Lane. She was murdered here, taken down the elevator, and placed in Barnes coffin.” He pulled out a folded Ordinance Map, tracing the slight distance between the mortuary and the alley Higgins had reported from. “The murderer then discarded Mr. Barnes and had Miss Beekin buried in his place.”

How cold that sounded, and how implacable the will must have been which could wait out a day with the corpse of one’s victim waiting while a police officer took statements just one floor above. For I realized, now that I counted time, that Miss Beekin could only have been buried the very afternoon we had arrived.

“Good lord, Mr. Holmes. Did you solve it that quickly?”

“This was the simple part, Constable. The true mystery is who killed her.” 

“When Mr. Beekin came to me he said that at 10:15 Monday, the time his cousin was scheduled to arrive, he was at a cemetery service with Alcester Owen here.”

Holmes turned to the young man. “Do you support that testimony?”

“Yes, sir. We was at Saint Thomas. The curate was there, and he can speak for us both.”

“Which he did, Mr. Owen, so you need not trouble for your reputation.”

“Thank you sir, I’d not like to be thought a villain. Break my mother’s heart, it would.”

“A wise consideration, young man,” I assured him, “and you will prosper best if you hold to it.”

“This leaves us with Mr. Beekin’s other testimony, that remaining in the house were only Mr. Moroni Joseph and Mr. Edward Alexander.”

His words raised a commotion, one quickly settled by the tap of a police baton. I did not look over to see who had been so cautioned. 

“Either man had, in embryo, the potential to commit the crime.”

“Moroni Joseph could.” Holmes pointed to the man, who rose uncomfortably in his chair. “He was in the building, he had access to the coffin, he had the strength to overpower her, he had the motive, to the degree that rumor might have informed him that she was bringing a large sum with her.” 

He gave Joseph a look of deep sympathy. “Five thousand pounds must seem a fortune to one earning a mere thirty pounds a year. With that sum you could easily buy passage to America and build a new home in the Utah colony along with your religious brethren. So you had means and motive.”

Holmes paused, allowing the murmur to be brought under control.

“What Mr. Joseph did not have was an excuse to travel up to the second floor. Also, I think from her careful habits Miss Beekin would not let a strange man – in the case of Moroni Joseph a particularly rough man - into her bedchamber. So no, Mr. Joseph, you are not our murderer. ”

Holmes moved to his next man.

“Mr. Edward Alexander had a better reason to be on the second floor. He presumably shares the office of the business. He is also better spoken, more a gentleman, and might not alarm Miss Beekin if he were to knock on her bedchamber door. He might even walk in, excusing the offense as a lapse of memory. I’m sure the room had some business purpose just days earlier.”

“Mr. Holmes!”, Beekin ejaculated.

Holmes ignored the outburst.

“What Mr. Alexander did not have is a reason to be in the preparation rooms, and especially not to be opening a locked coffin. The man is a salesman and a photographer, not a mortician. Also, he would anticipate the risk of being observed by Mr. Joseph, who he would assume was in the basement going about his proper work.” Holmes smiled. “We may also note that, unlike a paid embalmer, a partner in the business would have known that Miss Beekin was not carrying cash.”

Holmes held up his hands. “Less means, and no motive.”

“But Mr. Holmes,” Higgins interjected. “Everyone else was at the cemetery. Those were the only two men in the house.”

“The only men, yes.” Sherlock Holmes turned to the sole lady in the room. “Will you tell us, Miss Joseph, why you killed her?”

“I never!”

“Do not deceive us, for your guilt is obvious.”

“You have nothing against me!” 

She shot for the door, but the constable pushed her back into her chair.

“I have your own words, Miss Joseph. You stated to the constable that you were out shopping on Monday when Miss Beekin vanished, yet on Tuesday we learned that the gas mantle needed had not been purchased. Indeed, not one shopkeeper in the neighborhood can recall seeing you before you came in asking about Miss Beekin.”

“You went out, but you waited in the yard until Miss Beekin approached. Then you, acting as the friendly housekeeper, guided her to the side door.”

“That was my first clue, Watson. No one had opened the front doors, yet the side entrance was obscure. I new visitor to the house would not have known to go there.”

“I say, Holmes, I had not have thought of that, even though the front door was blocked when we arrived.”

“You showed her to her room, Miss Joseph. She did not hesitate to take off her cloak and hat, a thing she would not have done in strange male company. That was the second clue.”

Now Beekin stood to protest. “Mr. Holmes, how could a frail girl like Marintha here take on a grown woman with no weapon and no signs of struggle?”

“The weapon was already there,” he answered. “Miss Joseph struck her with the clothes pole, and then cleaned and rehung it.

“Had you planned that, I wonder, or was it the inspiration of the moment?” Holmes paused, considering. “ Planned, of course. She would have reacted to the removal of the rod.”

There were general gasps as the brutal revelation, but Holmes did not hesitate. 

“Her body went into the dumb waiter. Unlike the others of the household you knew your father was drinking again. You did not worry that you would meet him, or that he would confess to his absence. In his lie you had a convenient alibi.”

“The preparation room provided you with a safe space to ransack her purse. What anger you must have felt when you found the bank documents. Not exchangeable. Not for you. To add to your frustration you had a dead woman and little time. It was the work of second to pull Barnes out of the coffin and dump your victim in. The coffin was relocked and ready to go, a chance to bury your mistake in the most literal way.”

“But why not dispose of the cape and hat as well?” I asked. “With those underground there would have been no clue at all.”

“She needed those to move Mr. Barnes. A half-naked male attracts attention, even in the worst of slums. A drunken woman? Not so much. She wrapped him in the coat, used the hat to obscure his face, and totted him off in the garden wheel barrel. One more doxy sleeping off the day would pass until someone tried to do business, and after that?” Holmes reached into his pocket, bringing out the police report. “Mr. Barnes had clearly died of natural causes. A matter for the police attention, but not too much attention.”

“She has our attention now, Mr. Holmes.” Higgins blew his whistle, and a company of his comrades came it. Their number assured her arrest faced no opposition.

We took our leave swiftly for the house held no resident truly happy with us.

“But why, Holmes?” I asked. “Why would she risk so much for money?”

“Quite a bit of money. Also, unlike her father, she truly hated it here. Consider how desperately she flirted with her employer, with me, with anyone who might take her from a life she had been taught was unworthy of her.”

Holmes considered the departing police wagon.

“As I said last night, teaching inclines to action, but hers was less the teaching of a theology and more the fantasy of a father who fixated constantly on outside solutions to his weakness. For him, the pilgrimage was a fairy tale as vaporous as his rich uncle. For her, it was a dream she believed enough to kill for. One can hardly blame her, in a way. All men kill for fantasies and hers was more reasoned than most. Converted to American dollars, that twenty five thousand would buy her a fine husband in Utah, and with that the promise of her planetary heaven.”

Perhaps that was true, but I could not find myself as philosophical as Holmes. “Now she has consigned herself to Blackgate, which I would count hell.”

***FINIS DOYLE GRATIA***

©KKR 2015


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